


We Savages Have Rituals Too

by lushatrocity



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushatrocity/pseuds/lushatrocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke has disappeared, lost to the darkness that haunts her soul. There is one member of their group that understands her pain -- but can he bring her home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Savages Have Rituals Too

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head fairly soon after the finale and I just had to write it. Though there may be hints of Bellarke -- this story is really about the beautiful brotp that is Lincoln and Clarke.

Lincoln's entire life has been shaped by rituals. There was the ritual to celebrate his birth, the ritual of discovering his _true name_ , and the ritual that marked his ascension into manhood, allowing him to join his brother and sisters in arms, to name a few. Indeed, even the words spoken in his final moments with Indra could be considered a ritual, the final words of wisdom passed from a mentor before their charge is forced out into the wide, wide world to chart their own course, draft their own story.

Life among the Sky People has its own rituals. Everyone rises with the dawn, completing their assigned tasks with a strange intensity, as if their very lives depended upon it -- and, Lincoln has to admit, it's entirely possible that it does.

But it is the ritual of their would-be leader, the rebellious boy-king, that has the lion's share of Lincoln's attention on this particular morning. On the surface, there is nothing remarkable about his daily walks along the wall. Just a general checking the security of his defenses most would think. But Lincoln is not most people. He watches Bellamy like a hawk and so he sees the desperation weighing down his every step, catches the flutter of his trembling fingers before he hides them away in his pockets, can sense the struggle within.

Bellamy never steps outside the gates, never dares to even let one toe cross the line, but the intensity of his gaze as he scans the treeline hints at a temptation that runs soul-deep.

"He's getting worse."

Octavia's voice is quiet as she joins him, eyes trained on her brother.

"He knows his duty is to his people."

Octavia huffs softly, turning towards him with a pointed raise of her brows. She doesn't say anything because they both know what she's thinking.

This can't last much longer.

                                           ________________________________________________________

It is the need to complete another ritual that has him seek out his former cave later that afternoon.

Clarke does not acknowledge his presence when he appears, choosing instead to focus all of her attention on the wall before her as she dips her fingers into a small bowl before pressing them firmly against the rock, dragging downwards slowly and leaving a trail of color in their wake.

Red, he notes. A bad day, then.

Familiar with the required steps for his portion of their dance, he sets about unpacking the supplies he had smuggled from the camp silently.

It does not take long -- with a shout, Clarke flicks the last of the crushed berries at the wall before snatching at a rag and wiping of her hands briskly.

She wastes little time beginning the next part of their ritual. When she speaks, the words are sharp and lightning-quick, the verbal version of ripping off a bandage, as she shoves him. "I'm a _murder_."

 "I am a Reaper," he returns, watching her face closely as he shoves her back. Her desire to begin is usually a good sign, but the choice of _red_ makes him wary.

"I killed a friend to save an alliance." Her eyes narrow faintly as she smacks his chest.

"I betrayed my people." He knows the ritual does not allow for mercy, for _pity_ , and so he returns the blow in kind, snapping a hand towards her side.

They continue in this fashion for close to an hour, voicing their personal sins while lashing out with their fists, until they are both gasping for air.

"I was a slave to the red." He catches the flash of pain that crosses her face and extends a hand towards her. They are close to the end.

"I _failed_ the ones I love," she whispers, voice cracking with an exhaustion that is triggered by more than physical exhertion, falling into his embrace with a sob.

Swaying gently, he hums the refrain of a melody in his mother-tongue and waits for the storm to pass.

She withdraws from him once her body has lost the ability to generate anymore tears, silently turning away to sink down onto the tiny collection of blankets that make up her bed. He waits until she is settled before turning to leave.

Her voice catches his ear just before he disappears into the darkness. "Why?"

He doesn't look back as he answers, "You are my people."

                                         -----------------------------------------------

It is late when he returns to camp, slipping into their tent silently. Octavia stirs faintly as he joins her on the cot, shifting forward to immediately drape an arm about his waist.

"How is she?"

Lincoln stares upwards, contemplating for a long moment before he says simply, "Healing."

Octavia hums thoughtfully before drifting back to sleep.


End file.
